This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(87)
Alizeh felt a sudden heat behind her eyes, an unexpected prick of emotion. “Yes,” she said softly.
Deen smiled but still his effort was strained. “Perhaps here, between we two strangers, there might exist no such apprehension.”
“You may depend upon it,” Alizeh said without hesitation. “Let us hope for the day when we might all remove our masks, sir, and live in the light without fear.”
Deen reached out and clasped her hands at that, held her palms between his own in a gesture of friendship that flooded her heart with feeling. They remained like that for a long moment before slowly parting.
In silence Deen helped her gather her things, and with only a brief nod, they said their goodbyes.
The shop bell rang softly as she left.
It was not until she was halfway down the street, her heart and mind thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts of the unexpected apothecarist, the weight of her overstuffed carpet bag, and the large, unwieldy box that housed her gossamer gown, that she remembered the card.
With a violent start, Alizeh dropped her carpet bag to the ground. She tugged free the small envelope from her pocket and, heart now racing in her chest, she tore open the thick paper.
She could hardly breathe as she scanned the brief note, the sharp, confident strokes of the script.
Wear this tonight, and you will be
seen only by those who wish you well.
Thirty-One
THE ROYAL PALACE HAD BEEN built into the base of Narenj Canyon, the imposing entrance positioned between treacherously steep cliffs the color of coral, against which the glittering white marble domes and minarets of the palace stood in stark contrast. The magnificent structure that was the prince’s home was cradled in a colossal fissure between land formations, at the base of which thrived lush vegetation even in winter. Acres of wild grass and burgeoning juniper touched the perpendicular rise of orange rock, the trees’ blue-green foliage twisted upon irregular branches, reaching sideways into the sky toward a vast, rushing river that ran parallel to the palace entrance. Over this tremulous, snaking body of water was built an enormous drawbridge, a fearsome masterwork that connected, eventually, to the main road—and into the heart of Setar.
Kamran was stood on that drawbridge now, staring at the river that had once seemed to him so formidable.
The rains had come only briefly this season, and as a result, the water underfoot was still fairly shallow, unmoving in the windless hour. Everyday Kamran waited, with coiled tension, for the rains to return; for a sweep of thunderstorms to spare their empire. If they did not—
“You are thinking of the cisterns,” his grandfather said quietly. “Are you not?”
Kamran looked at the king. “Yes,” he said.
“Good.”
The two of them stood side by side on the bridge, a common stopping place for cleared visitors to the palace. All were expected to halt their horses while the guards pulled open the towering, foreboding doors that led to the royal courtyard. The prince had been surprised to discover, upon his return from Baz House, that his grandfather had been waiting at the bridge to intercept him.
The carriage that delivered Kamran back to the palace was now long gone—and Hazan with it—but still, his grandfather had said little. He’d neither asked about the results of Kamran’s search, nor said a word about the Tulanian missive—the summary of which Hazan had provided on their ride home.
The news had been disconcerting, indeed.
Even so, the king and his heir did not discuss it. Instead, they watched in silence as a servant girl paddled a canoe on the still waters below, the lithe boat heaving with a vivid starburst of fresh flowers.
Seldom did Kamran spend time here, at the outer edge of the palace grounds, though his hesitation arose not from a fear of feeling exposed. The palace was all but impenetrable to attack, guarded as it was on all sides by natural defenses. The vast grounds, too, were secured by an outer wall, the top of which grazed the clouds, and that was manned at all times by no fewer than a thousand soldiers, all of whom stood by, arrows notched in waiting.
No, it was not that the prince felt unprotected.
Despite the breathtaking views from this vantage point, Kamran avoided lingering too long on this bridge because it reminded him of his childhood, of one day in particular. He found it hard to believe that so much time had passed since that fateful day, for it still felt to him, in certain moments, as if the event had occurred but minutes ago.
In fact, it had been seven years.
Kamran’s father had been away from Ardunia then, gone from home for months to lead a senseless war in Tulan. A young Kamran had been stuck at home with tutors, a distant mother, and a preoccupied king; the long stretches of worry and boredom had been interrupted only by visits to his aunt’s house.
The day his father was due to arrive back at the palace Kamran had been watching from the high windows. He searched restlessly for the sight of his father’s familiar carriage, and when it finally arrived he’d run desperately out the doors, breathless with anticipation, coming to a stop at this very bridge, overtop this very river. He waited outside the parked carriage, lungs burning with exertion, for his father to greet him.
The rainy season had been ferocious that year, rendering the river turbulent, heaving with a terrifying force. Kamran remembered this because he stood there, listening to the heft of it as he waited; waited for his father to open the door, to show himself.